


Why do YOU write?

by Winchester_Chronicles



Category: MyLife - Fandom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-22
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2019-04-26 04:13:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14394042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winchester_Chronicles/pseuds/Winchester_Chronicles
Summary: This isn't so much a fictional work as an introduction. This is who I am. This is why I write. Comment or not at your own disclosure. Any further works all contain a small piece of myself, as will be explained by this short composition.Thank you for your attention, and as always, It is better to DREAM...





	Why do YOU write?

Why do YOU write?

 

I write for so many reasons. When it started, I just knew I didn’t want to be at home. So I went to the library at school. I started reading. I can’t even remember the first book I read. But I knew I loved horses, so horse books were my “go to”. I don’t know that I even realized when I could see it. When I could feel it. I could feel the characters. I could see everything the author was describing. The words transported me into another world. I saw something beyond the simple reality I was living in. 

I can picture the desk of the public library. I can still feel myself pulling at the edge to try and see over the counter while my mom helped me fill out a form so I could have my own library card. I could check out any books I wanted. I signed it myself. I biked. A lot. All over town really. But there was only one place I’d go with religious monotony: the library. I needed to be somewhere else. Anywhere else. A place with happy endings. And I found them…everywhere except where I was. 

I didn’t have anyone I was trying to impress. No friends growing up. Just my teachers. They made the most impact. Because they saw me. Even in elementary school, I wasn’t inclined to put up with anyone’s bullshit. I went to the roller rink with everyone else in my class because, it was fun. I skated by myself, and lost myself in the exhilaration of going faster and faster. The feeling of the wind I was creating turning me into my own personal tornado. Anyone that could keep up was welcome to. Anyone who could see beyond the average reality was instantly my friend. At least, for a little while. 

I digress. Kinda what I do. Why do I write? Because I couldn’t read anymore. My family moved. I was lost. My imaginary world shattered in front of my eyes and I had to face my reality. To explain this in a way that makes sense to my writer’s mind now, looking back, my original character died. Not in the way that some people would imagine, as in a physical death, and not even all at once. No. My character died slowly. Painfully. As the people she thought she could trust most in this reality crushed bits of her soul beneath their feet. This was sometimes intentional, but more often than not, it was completely accidental. They just weren’t looking. They weren’t looking down at the bits of shattered soul that I couldn’t collect fast enough, or seem to hold in my hands for more than a few moments. I lost reading. So I started writing. I used the words, the ones I had learned over the years, to fabricate my own world. I created characters who I couldn’t be. Giving them life and strength I couldn’t have. They faced all of my fears and conquered them when I couldn’t. 

Some of my original characters are still there, years later, in the back of my mind. I can feel them. I can see them. I can hear them. Others cannot. But…I don’t think they’d understand. My words…sometimes, they get mixed up. My stories are disjointed. No one else sees the connections where I do. But the world, even the imaginary frosting world I create to soften the real one, is so much more complex than a lot of people care to admit. Most people don’t want to see. They can’t hear. They can’t see. They can’t feel – the impossible. 

My life. My words. They’re mine. Mine and no one else’s. They can’t be taken from me. They don’t disappoint me when they’re sitting right here in front of me. Once they are written, they are constant. They will remain true to themselves. Constant. Reliable. Never changing. Never fading. The words…the words are home…when nowhere else is.


End file.
